


My Muse, the Silver Surfer

by SonicoSenpai



Series: Various Lamento One-Shots [12]
Category: Lamento -BEYOND THE VOID-
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Kiss, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Nudity, Public Nudity, Rai in a wetsuit, Skipping Class, Stalking, Surfing, Voyeurism, Well mild kinda unintended stalking, What else do you need in life?, inspiration for writing music, omg where is the sex?, what else does Konoe need in his life?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 08:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17763218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonicoSenpai/pseuds/SonicoSenpai
Summary: This little one-shot is based on chapter 4 of MintSlice’s much more clean and sweet 5 Man Dates, in which she leaves everyone hanging with Koujaku in a wetsuit, so as not to show his tattoos. While I may spend the majority of my life in AO3 today, decades ago, and WAY before it was the #2 school in the US (since I’m too dumb for that) I earned my degree at the University of California in San Diego, in English lit, which explains my crappy editing and excessive use of the comma.I’d like to say, whoever decided it was a good idea to put a beach right next to this school—Just, not a good fit, man! And I’m just saying, Konoe’s experience with that particular class, well—it may be personal. But the other stuff—well, I never saw any cats. But I did spend some time at the beach. :)





	My Muse, the Silver Surfer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MintSlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSlice/gifts).
  * Inspired by [5 Man Dates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17539112) by [MintSlice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSlice/pseuds/MintSlice). 



Spring quarter is the hardest time to drag my butt to morning classes, and I made a severe miscalculation this quarter by scheduling statistics this early. I’m a music major, and I have to take at least one math class to graduate, and this psychology class will do since I passed the AP calculus test while in high school. But taking it first thing on Tuesdays and Thursdays when the weather has turned so nice was a horrible mistake.

Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just—it’s my sophomore year and upper division classes start next year, and I don’t want to be messing with graduation requirements then. So this is my last chance to get it out of the way. As long as I show up for half the midterms and pass them I’ll be okay as long as I pass the final. I’m not taking it for a grade but for credit/no credit. It’s a huge lecture hall, and the professor is so dull. Even after my venti caramel macchiato, I can’t stay awake. 

So this morning, I take my sheet music down to the beach. Seriously, who in their right mind thought it would be smart to build a university within walking distance from a beach? Except me—I love it. I get so much writing done here.

I’m from a small village as far inland as you can get, a little village where the largest body of water a swimming hole, and I loved it—but that pond is _nothing_ like this giant expanse of ocean. The waves are amazing. There are huge cliffs—and a marine center, where graduate students study sea life and geology, spending months at sea if they like—but that’s not for me. I see the attraction, though. The ocean is massive. 

The waves are huge and blue and gorgeous—crashing from blue to aqua to green, fizzing into soft white foam when they reach my bare feet in the sand—and the water always feels cold even when the sun burns hot in the sky and sand. The mornings are quiet and peaceful—and the beach is almost deserted—though the water is speckled with a strange sight: surfers. 

I’d never heard of the sport before coming here. Cats riding large wooden and waxed surfboards—taller than me—standing on them and riding the waves—it looks like flying, so elegant and beautiful. Most of the surfers out this early are really good, and they are here _every_ morning. And there is one I particularly like to watch. He is tall, lean and muscular with nearly white waist-length hair, probably bleached from how much time he spends in the sun and tanned skin. I’ve never really seen him up close before, but he swims like a fish, diving through the water—and he can ride waves further than anyone else. He wears a dark blue wetsuit with short sleeves this time of year—in the winter, it’s a full wetsuit, black. And he’s muscular.

Oh. Did I mention his muscles already? So, yeah, I think he’s hot.

My friend Tokino teases me about the silver-haired surfer all the time. He accuses me of having a crush on him, just because I happen to come down here and write music and happen to time my visits around when I know he will be there. I kind of am curious to see him either arrive or leave, at some point. I’ve been watching him about a year, and I’ve never seen him come or go. I don’t really want to spy on him, but I want to wait till he leaves the water today. A part of me suspects he lives in the water.

He’s already in the water when I make it to the beach after walking down the rocky, steep path, and I sit down in the sand. I’m in my trunks and t-shirt, slip off my flip flops, and let the water cover my toes. I pull out my sheet music and pencil, in case a tune comes upon me—you never know when the muse will strike, and that cat—well, he’s been a muse of mine for a while now. He has inspired quite a few songs. I close my eyes and let the sea spray kiss my face, listening to the wind touch the fur in my ears, and I lick the salt from my lips.

I open my eyes again and gaze out at the sea, just in time to watch the silver cat swimming face down on his board, out toward the next wave. A melody starts in my heart as I watch him select a wave, and he swims toward it recklessly, then he pulls himself up to stand. Getting his timing just right is like a dance—and his balance—not standing too far forward or back on the board, and he makes a gamble that the wave will curl just so—and it does.

It’s perfect—my heart sings—and my hand flies across my sheet music, copying the music I hear in my head like dictation as I watch his form flit across the water, disappearing under the tall wave, into the tube as it curls around him. It looks like magic!

Impatiently I brush tears away from my face as the wave crashes down on the beach and I see him land perfectly on the other side of the wave, his hand on his board, a bright smile on his face, shaking drops of water from his hair and his fur. He climbs back on his board and swims back out to deeper water—to do it all again.

It must be exhausting—I become exhausted just _watching—_ but he is gorgeous and so energetic, so filled with life and beauty all his own, like he belongs in the water like he has always lived there. I am a little sad when he finally comes out of the water when the sun is high in the sky. I have pulled back from the shore somewhat so I won’t be seen—but I want to see which car is his. 

It doesn’t occur to me till later—when I mention what I’ve done to Tokino—that what I’m doing is somewhat intrusive or slightly stalkerish. But I simply _have_ to know. I’ve been watching him for more than a year now, and I just have to know. 

I do feel something for him, I think—but I could never bring myself to talk to him. What would I say? He’s excessively athletic and attractive—I’m sure he has many girls talking to him all the time. What could a person like me—a geeky music major—have of interest to him or have in common with him?

Nevertheless, I watch from behind the bushes when he climbs out of the water. As predicted, he’s wearing his usual short-sleeved wetsuit today. I sigh rather helplessly when I watch him walk from behind. He has a powerful back from swimming and a really nice ass, and it looks like his fur dries quickly as he shakes the water from it. And gods, those _legs_ —shit. To my surprise, he walks to the first car in the lot—it’s an old classic car—a convertible—and to my knowledge, it looks like a 1970 Olds Cutlass, blue with a white skunk stripe—a heavy muscle car that would be perfect for carrying surfboards around—or dead bodies in the trunk, my inner pessimist tells me.

Without looking around or missing a beat, he opens the trunk of the car and unzips the front of his wetsuit, stripping off his wetsuit _right_ _there_ —in the _middle_ of the parking lot. To my shock, he’s naked under there—like— _completely_ naked, as far as I can tell—and the rest of his body, the parts usually covered by the wetsuit—that skin is much paler than the tan skin that shows. And holy _crap_ —does he have a gorgeous body! I swallow a greedy gasp.

I am unable to look away—though I clearly realize what I’m doing is spying for reals now—I am seeing something I am _not_ supposed to be looking at—but he pulls off his wetsuit boldly and steps out of it, tossing it into the trunk of his car, and then grabs a pair of shorts and pulls them on— _just_ a pair of shorts. _No_ underwear. And I try not to look—but, well.

Uwaa! Commando?? He goes _commando_? Oh, shit! My heart beats loud in my ears, and I accidentally snap a twig underneath my feet.

His ears twitch to the sound—how the _fuck_ could he possibly hear that at this distance!? But he turns his head in my direction and I drop down to the ground as fast as I can go, flattening my ears, flattening my body in the grass and sand—shit—thinking, do _not_ look over here, do _not_ come over here!

And I wait till I hear the heavy sound of the trunk slam. And the sound of the car door opens and closes, and the motor starts. The car has a wonderful, gurgling sound, and it pulls out of the parking lot. I wait till I can’t hear its purring exhaust on the street and only then do I get up.

When I get up, I realize I’ve dropped my music—in _front_ of the bushes.

 _Shit_. If he looked over here, he probably saw a bunch of sheet music. Maybe his eyes aren’t that great if his ears are good. But just in case, I really should skip coming here tomorrow.

I head back up the steep path, pleased with my new song—and unable to get the silver cat’s gorgeous body out of my head. My distraction is what attracts Tokino’s attention, and he gives me a hard time again—about “perving on the surfer cat,” as he says.

I don’t want to hear it. But I jerk off to his image before I go to sleep—I can’t help it. I can’t think of anything else. He’s attractive—and completely out of my league.

And I don’t keep my promise. I show up again the next morning—and I sit in the sand, watching the water, listening the waves, watching him surf—thankful for the other surfers here today, too. 

Today, I feel like he meets my eyes at least twice—but I look away immediately. It _has_ to be my imagination. And I leave before he does—I don’t want to get caught watching him change again, and I don’t want to be late to my music class. Tomorrow, I may stay later, though.

Thursday—during my stats class—I find myself here again. I’m glad I invested in sunscreen, and I realize this is my third day in a row. It’s not unusual, but I try to break up my routine and come every other day. But I like the beach, I like the ocean, and it’s not that weird.

So I tell myself.

And I’m sitting here calmly with my eyes closed at the water's edge—music in my lap—when water splashes my legs. I open my eyes in surprise and a low cheerful voice says, “How long are you going to just sit and stare at the ocean, kid? How the hell can you stand not diving in?” 

The voice tickles my fur deep in my ears, making them twitch, and my eyes widen a little. The beach faces west, so the sun is at my back. I look up, and before me stands the silver-haired surfer. Up close, he is really, really tall—towering over me—and even better looking than I could ever imagine. His face is chiseled like a statue—he looks like he could be a model for some sports magazine—and his arms are muscular and tan, and his eyes are a pale blue and icy, reminding me of the ocean itself, his lips look plush and soft. His fur is long and wet—white or silver—but even soaked, I can see the shape of his ears is slightly smaller than mine and rounded. They are _really_ cute. I feel my cheeks flush, wondering if he’s noticed me watching him, in particular, all this time, and I think, oh shit—he must think me a _total_ pervert!

So I drop my gaze, and then I notice his _legs_ —and oh my _gods_! I swallow—audibly—nervously—and shit—he’s going to know I’ve been here, fantasizing about him on a regular basis, writing songs about him and his life, and now I’ve seen his gorgeous legs up close and I want to _touch_ him, and I drop my eyes even lower, landing on his feet.

 _Fuck_! His feet are even pretty! How the hell can he have attractive _feet_? He could be a foot model, for gods’ sake! I look away and I realize it’s been too quiet for too long and I’m being super awkward and super obvious and really weird. 

“Uh, um, s-sorry,” I stammer helplessly. “I j-just come here to write.”

“You watch the ocean and never once dive in! How can you stand it? You’re wearing a swimsuit, right? Get in! You can swim, can’t you?”

I look up at his face again.

“W-well, y-yeah,” I stammer lamely.

“Come on, then,” he says, and his blue eyes sparkle happily—and his face is full of joy, a happiness I only ever feel when I am hearing the best music or no, making the best music. What _is_ this cat? Maybe he isn’t real—I mean, if he were real, he wouldn’t be talking to me, would he?

“I c-can’t—I-I h-have m-my music,” I stutter some more, easily able to make myself look an idiot even in front of an imaginary person.

“Are you a student?” the silver cat asks. “At the university?”

“Yes.” 

“So am I. A grad student, though—marine biology.” He smiles, showing me straight, white, perfect teeth, eyes still sparkling, friendly. True, those fangs are slightly larger than mine and maybe a little scary, but intimidation maybe intrigues me a little. “So. Put it down and live a little.”

“What?” 

“Put the music down, and live a little, I said. Get your ass in the water!”

“I couldn’t—” 

“You’re not local, are you?”

“N-no.”

“But you can swim?” 

“Yes.”

“Look—you’ve been watching me for almost a year, right? Do you want to learn?” 

Oh, shit! I feel my ears flush—and I can’t do anything to stop them. I want to run away—but it’s too fucking late.

“No? What’s wrong? Hey—it’s okay.” His voice is kind—it isn’t mean, it isn’t cold, and it really isn’t teasing—like what I grew up with all my life. I was hoping that when I came to university my life would be different—that _I_ wouldn’t be so different—and yeah, I met some cats like me, but no one I wanted to be with who was also like _me_. 

Despite myself, my eyes are swimming with tears, just because he’s being kind to me.

“What year are you? What’s your name?” He plops down beside me, that wetsuit making a solid thwack on the sand next to me. I am embarrassed that I am right now trying _so_ desperately not to think what exactly is under that wetsuit and how he keeps it from sticking. “I’m Rai. I’m in my third year of graduate studies—at least two more to go. I did my undergrad in biology here, too.” 

“Konoe. I’m a sophomore,” I say quietly. “I’m studying music.”

“I thought as much. I saw your sheet music yesterday—when I was in the parking lot.”

Oh, _fuck_.

“Y-you s-saw me?” 

“That was you, wasn’t it? Hiding in the bushes?”

Shit, shit, shit!

“You knew I was there?” If he knew I was there, why didn’t he change somewhere more private?! 

“Maybe.” I look up at his strangely teasing but easy-going tone, and he is staring at me. “I might have been trying to determine something.”

I blush again, completely embarrassed, but I find I can’t quite look away. I’m too curious!

“What?”

“If you were interested in surfing lessons.” 

I don’t say anything.

“It seems I was right.”

I still don’t reply.

“You _weren’t_.” 

He doesn’t sound that disturbed or bothered that he knows I was watching him. Almost like he was testing me?

“So I wanted to make sure.” There is a short pause, and I’m compelled to say something.

“I think the way you surf is amazing,” I admit, looking down. “B-but I don’t want lessons.”

“I see,” Rai answers. “So... what _do_ you want?”

“D-Do I have to want anything?” I ask defensively.

“No. But if you don’t _ask_ for what you want, you might not get it.”

“I j-just find y-you inspiring.”

“What?” Rai’s ears flick up slightly. He really has adorable ears. If I could have anything, I would _like_ to lick those ears, and I have to stop myself from licking my lips. I do, however, look out at the ocean and lick the salt from my lips at that point.

“Th-the w-way you m-move, wh-when you’re in th-the w-water, it’s like a d-dance,” I manage to stammer inelegantly. “I’ve wr-written s-some songs.”

“Songs?” 

“Yeah. When you catch a good wave,” I say, unable to look at him. “You’re like m-my muse.”

“Really.” Again, his tone makes me look back at him and he’s still smiling, his fangs poking over his lips. His eyes are so pretty! “You know, you’re a terrible liar.”

“I d-don’t want lessons!” I insist.

“I believe _that_ ,” Rai says quietly. “It’s just, well, your ears—and your tail—they say something _different_ when you say you don’t want anything from me.”

“I-I don’t think I a- _actually_ said I _didn’t_ want anything from you,” I say very quietly.

“I noticed that, _too_.” Rai’s voice gets even softer, but it’s just as loud as was in my ears, so I look back at him, and he’s leaned much closer to me. My fur fluffs out. He smells so good—like saltwater and the sea—sunshine and sunblock—and something else—something fresh and clean—perfect and strong and sexy. 

I swallow again—audibly. My body is trembling slightly.

“You’re really cute, Konoe.”

My face flushes redder. I can’t _believe_ what I’m hearing. Is he teasing me? My ears flatten.

“If you’re not too busy with classes, and you don’t want surfing lessons, well, maybe you’d like to grab some coffee with me? Or dinner?”

“D-dinner? You mean, as friends?” Hope is building in my chest, and I don’t want to have to dash it.

“Well, if you want, I’d be _okay_ with it if you prefer us to be friends or start there,” Rai purrs. “But I was hoping for something... a little more like a date? Does that make you uncomfortable? Going on a date with me?”

I really can’t believe my ears, and I turn to look at him now. He’s sitting really close to me—in fact, I can feel his damp hair brushing my arm. It smells good.

“N-no, n-not at all!” I say, letting my eagerness show. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rai whispers, smiling at me. I return his smile, and he leans his face in toward me, and his nose bumps mine just a tiny bit, nudging mine just a little.

A tiny little sound escapes my mouth—a little meow—and Rai leans in and takes my lips with his. He’s very gentle—and so warm—keeping his hands on either side of my body as he leans in, and I reach out just a little bit, running my hands through his hair.


End file.
